A Father’s Justice
DESCRIPTION:
A man shouldn’t outlive his son. Neither should his killer.
In a searing new western novelette from Scott Dennis Parker, you will discover all a father will endure to see justice done right by his murdered son.
Luke Russell was a cowpuncher, making an honest way in the world at one of the biggest ranches outside of Junction City. But he got himself in trouble over a girl, and he paid the ultimate price.
Now, a stranger’s in town, asking after Pete Davidson, the man who put a bullet in Luke Russell’s gut. This stranger is old, and folks realize it’s Luke father, come to kill Davidson. The gunslinger is young and vibrant, just like Luke Russell was. The old man doesn’t stand a chance.
Or does he?
The answer comes in a brand-new western written in the style of Robert Vaughn, Louis L’Amour, and Chet Cunningham.
Genre: Short story | Western
Available in:
Ebook: $0.99
Excerpt:
“I’m lookin’ for Pete Davidson.” The stranger’s voice was old, aged with smoke, and hardened by time out on the range.
Hector knew Davidson. Everyone in town did. Hector only wondered what fresh hell Davidson had cooked up to get another man to come looking for him.
To the stranger, Hector said, “He ain’t here.”
“I can see that.”
Slowly, the stranger walked to the bar. His peripheral vision took in both the back room of the saloon and the front window. Outside, passersby went about the business of Junction City. The courthouse lawn was free of people on this Saturday afternoon. The Gilmour children walked with their mother across the street, a rangy dog followed them. The clip-clop of hooves and a squeaky wagon wheel pierced the stillness of a late summer’s afternoon.
The stranger reached the bar and leaned on it. “Can I get a beer, please?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He laid it on the wood pockmarked with knife marks and carvings.
Hector retrieved a fresh glass and filled it. He slid the coin into his hands and stepped back, putting his butt against the far wall. “Why’re you looking for Pete?”
The stranger removed his hat and set it on the bar. His matted hair was predominantly gray. What color remained was brown.
“That’s between me and him.” He downed half the brew in a single gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar.
Hector had the impression the stranger had forgotten all about him. It wasn’t until Hector fidgeted that the stranger again took notice of him.
“You ever know you have to do something but don’t know if you’ve got it in you?” the stranger asked.
Hector was used to men talking to him, giving up their secrets. But that was from men he knew. “I reckon.”
The stranger shook his head. “Bet you have more than one cuss saying something like this?”
Hector nodded. He spoke when he realized the stranger wasn’t looking at him. “Yes.”
The stranger took another swallow. He drew his attention to the bar top and the gouges in it. Knife cuts and initials coated most of the surface. Some men carved their entire names. The stranger traced his hands over one name, his fingers caressing each letter of the name. His beer forgotten, he studied each of the names carved into the wood.
Hector said, “A few boys carved their names into the wood. I used to get after them, made them fix up what they did. But as you can see”—he indicated a place nearer him—“the fix looks worse’n the carvin’. Pretty soon, I kinda liked having the names in the wood. Became kinda like a rite of passage. New man in town ain’t accepted into town lessen’ he puts his name on my bar.”
The stranger wasn’t listening. He went up one side of the bar then returned to his spot. He moved his beer glass and started reading the names and initials on the other side of the bar.
His fingers stopped on a name. A little gasp of recognition escaped his lips.
Hector moved to see the name that had stopped the stranger. “Luke.” Hector’s blood froze in his veins. He remembered the man who belonged to that name. He remembered how he died.
Realization dawned on Hector. “You kin to Luke?”
The stranger didn’t answer. “You knew him?”
“A little.” Hector shrugged. “He was new in town, got shown the ropes by the other cow punchers up on the Alistair ranch. He was a little wet behind the ears, but he learned fast.”
The stranger kept staring at the name. “How did he die?”
Hector hesitated. “Look, mister, I don’t…”
“How did he die?” the stranger repeated, this time in a forceful voice.